


Put On a Good Show

by Froggyflan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Circus, Frottage, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, more AUs to ruin my goddamn life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8575906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggyflan/pseuds/Froggyflan
Summary: Mako joins the circus and meets a peculiar fool





	1. Like an animal

**Author's Note:**

> A really fun commission from [ Fingurken ](http://fingurken.tumblr.com/)!!!!!!
> 
> This will be a couple chapters. What am I doing starting another series when I can't even finish the first one, you ask? 
> 
> Don't worry about it.
> 
> P.S.: I'll be damned if I am not 100% historically accurate. I'm a history buff.

They had come to his island looking for “exotic” things to take for their own. 

He’d gotten used to the settlers, the people from across the sea with pale skin and ugly clothes. At least they kept their distance and had things to sell. But these ones were different. They came with big voices and strange words and cages that were cold and metal. They trapped the seals and kiwis; rarities, they’d called them. They paid the people for each one, as if the people owned them. The people did not correct them.

They had been so interested in Mako, all smiles and wide eyes. He was a rarity too, they’d said, so big and tall. They had admired his stature, measured him up and down and around, tested his strength, prodded at his moko. They spoke to him like he was an idiot; childish gestures and simple slow words. Money, they’d said, more money than he could ever make building boats and fishing. They’d refused to give him an actual amount, said it was such a big number he wouldn’t even understand it. He’d hated their tone, but money was money, and money kept his people alive these days. He would come back rich as a king and live his days out in European luxuries.

To the mainland he’d go. They’d made him sign papers with words he didn’t know. They had explained to him what it all meant, and he’d believed them. Maybe he really was as stupid as they thought he was. An agreement, they’d said, written down in case they forgot. And with that, he had been escorted onto that icy metal boat that smelled of fire and rot.

The sun and moon rose four times before they reached the shore, and when they did, the stench was unnerving. The smell of fire had worsened to the point that he felt his lungs filling with ash. It hung in the air and turned it grey like storm clouds. The port was overfilled with people, and he had wondered where they all came from, what purpose they served. They all smelled like poison.

They took him by horse drawn carriage. He hadn’t seen many horses before, of what the settlers brought with them. Big fat bellies and long gangly legs. They probably shouldn’t exist. The carriage was huge, with big metal bars surrounding the inside, and the floor of it was covered in piles of dried grass. It reminded him of a pig pen. The whole thing was painted red and yellow, with brightly colored words. Names, he supposed. There was a picture of a strange animal he didn't know, with teeth and claws and stripes. He guessed that's what normally lived in the carriage. There were no chairs on the inside, so he sat in the grass and tried not to feel like a caged animal, like the seals and the kiwis. He was not successful. 

A long and terribly bumpy ride later, he was in the middle of a city of big cloth houses and music. Everything was very colorful, to the point where it hurt his eyes to look at it. Extravagant posters lined the outside of the houses, painted canvas with pictures of strong men and large women and what looked like people, but parts of them were wrong. Not human, he decided. Maybe they were creatures of stories like whaea used to tell him, and they’d captured them and put them on display. Maybe that’s what he looks like to the strangers, to the settlers: A monster.

They moved him to a house in the back, small and white and plain. He appreciated it being away from all the noise and colors. He would stay here, they told him, this is where he’d sleep when he wasn’t performing. He didn’t know what he was supposed to perform, exactly. He is not a warrior or a dancer. He is a fisherman. When he asked what they meant, they smiled and told him he would just need to be himself.

What an odd place. What odd people.

Now he is left to his own devices. The house has several beds, held off the ground with metal poles, and each one has personal belongings strewn about them: photographs, clothes, newspapers. His bed has nothing but him. It barely fits his large body, and his feet hang off the end by a bit, but it’s comfortable. The bed beside his is something of a mess. It looks like someone had used the blankets and sheets to mop up spilled paint, and white fingerprints are smudged onto every surface possible. Papers and wooden toys are crammed underneath the bed, and several brightly colored balls look to be hidden in different crevices and boxes. He wonders if children work here as well. From the posters out front, he supposes anything is possible.

The other people who live in the house seem to be out causing the music, and he hears loud cheering off in the distance. Performances. Would people look at him and cheer, or would they treat him like an animal? Would they look at him like he was an idiot too? His hands tug at the straps of his weku, with the long blue tongue and pig nose. At least he could hide his face, and they wouldn’t have to know how he felt. He could scowl and grimace all day and they’d be none the wiser.

A loud bang startles him out of his thoughts, but it’s followed by more cheering and happy, excited laughing. He wonders how long it will take to get used to this place, with the strange people and monsters and a world of things he doesn’t understand. He wonders how long it will take to get enough money so he can go home.

It’s silly to be homesick so soon, he thinks. He’s only just gotten here, but it’s the farthest that he’s ever gone, and the land away from Aotearoa is far more foreign than he’d thought it would be. There is no smell of the ocean here, no whistling breeze or white sands that melt with every step. He takes a breath, and it’s still smoky and stinging. 

When the sky gets darker, the city is still bright. A sphere hanging from the ceiling of the house suddenly lights up like the sun and makes him jump. It burns his eyes and makes a buzzing sound like a bee.

He hears footsteps near the entrance to the house, and he readies himself for a confrontation. He puts on his weku and hopes that they won't try and speak to him.

A man appears in the doorway and they stare each other down. He's tall, skinny, and sharp, like a heron. White paint covers his face sloppily, blue on his eyes like crosses. His hair has bells in it, and they make a weird metal sound when he moves, just like the chains around his neck and hips. It’s all very bright and frilly and amusing, at best.

The man looks as surprised as Mako feels, but when he expects a look of disgust and pity, there are only stars in his eyes.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! G’day, big fella!”

The man stands up straight, and Mako hadn't even noticed he was slouching so drastically. He drops his things carelessly on the ground: a bag full of brightly-colored balls topples over. This must be his roommate. 

The man glides over to him with an outstretched hand, gloved in gold. His grin is wide and manic, like the face on a warrior's mask.

“Jamison Fawkes, at yer service!”

Mako hesitates. This character is the most odd thing he's seen so far, and there's a poster outside of a man with an ear growing out of his forehead. The man wiggles his hand. 

“Come on, mate, a handshake! It's polite!”

Mako slowly takes the man's hand in his, and it's normal to see the size difference. His fingers engulf it and it disappears in his palm. 

Suddenly, the man tugs away from him, and his hand rips from his arm. He screams, clutching at his arm, and Mako jumps back, throwing the severed hand to the ground as quickly as he can. He's not been here a day and he's already ripped someone's hand off.

“Jesus Christ!” The man starts to laugh, loud and uneven, and reaches down to pick up his hand like it's nothing. While he's trying to get his heart to not beat out of his chest, Mako realizes the hand is made of metal. It isn't real. “Works every time! Ain't never gonna not be funny!”

The man presses the fake hand back to his wrist, where it clasps on with metal hooks and leather straps. The man looks at him and smiles wider.

“Sorry I scared ya, big guy, I do that ta every newbie. It's the only good thing ta come outta this.” He knocks the hand against his bedside table, and it makes a hollow clanking sound. “Real pleased ta meet ya, honest!”

Mako doesn't know if he can trust someone who scares people for fun. But the man seems determined to get something out of him. The man, Jamison Fawkes, comes closer, moving from side to side to inspect him.

Mako waits for the roving eyes and unwarranted touches like all the pale men before him, but what he gets instead is genuine curiosity and a gaze full of wonder. The man doesn't keep his distance, watches him closely from only inches away, and it makes Mako a little nervous. He definitely doesn't expect the friendly chatter.

“Ya an abo? Plenty fellas like that around here. Ya look different, though. Ya from the jungle? Yer tattoos are real neat. I bet that hurt a lot, huh? Ya make that mask yerself? Looks fun.”

The man tries to mimic the face of his weku, stretching his tongue out as far as he can and squeezing his eyes shut. Mako let's out a laugh despite his better judgement. 

“Hey, ya talk at all? Sure are quiet. Ya speak English? It's okay if ya don't. Ain't gonna make fun a ya.”

Mako isn’t sure if he should answer. The man talks a mile a minute, and he can barely keep up. The thick accent doesn't help. He sounds like a settler.

“I can speak English,” he answers, and the man looks like he's hooked the biggest fish in the sea.

“Well hooley dooley, what a voice! Ya ain’t even got an accent. Better than me!” The man keeps smiling, and Mako wonders if his face hurts at all. “Everyone says I don’t talk right. They just don't know how ta have a good time!”

The man turns around and starts shoving all his things under his bed, patting at his blankets in an effort to make them look more clean. “Sorry for the mess, can't keep anything clean for even a minute. Ya want a tour, mate? Bet they just stuck ya in here without a word, right?”

Mako nods, and the man huffs, putting his hands on his hips. “Ain't no hospitality with them, I'll tell ya. Sure ya figured that out.”

Mako shrugs. He isn't too sure what that word means, but he guesses the men who brought him here aren’t very nice to anyone.

“Come on, I'll show ya around. Almost dinner time. I can introduce ya ta everyone then. What do they call ya? What’s yer name?”

The man looks at him with big orange eyes and a grin that asks too many questions and has too many things to say. He has the excitement of a child and the energy of a quick burning fire, and everything about him reminds Mako of a big puffy kea. He twitches and shuffles his feet, as if he will die if he stops moving. Mako wonders if anything in this world could make him sad. He’s doubtful.

Mako smiles behind the weku, and it’s as if Jamison can tell.

“Mako.”


	2. Bother Me

Jamison is a “firecracker”.

That's what the others call him, when Jamison drags him around the white cloth city, pointing at people and naming them off as if Mako will remember. They say he is a “firecracker”, and Jamison smiles proudly. Mako doesn't understand what that is, but the fire part is true. It is a good thing to call him; Appropriate. 

The people are kind, from what he can gather. They give Mako a curious look, but it's normal to look at a stranger like that. Mako does the same. He can’t help but stare at their odd features, their twisted, unreal bodies: fingers melted together, misshapen heads, too tall, too short. Sisters born into one body, men that look like skeletons. He wonders why Jamison is here among them. His body is not so strange.

“Been here a long time,” Jamison tells him. “Ain't nobody here who don't know me.”

The double negatives are difficult to understand, but he thinks he likes the way the man talks. It's a comforting accent, even if it sounds like those shifty settlers. It still reminds him of home.

Jamison makes him think of birds. Maybe it's the warbling pitch of his voice or how long and skinny his legs are. His nose is pointed like a beak and his eyes dart around like he is waiting for something to jump out at him. The way he laughs is like the squawk of a gull, but it’s not unpleasant. That reminds him of home too.

“Ya a strong fella? Ya sure are big. Ya could probably lift me without even trying.”

Mako does just that. He doesn't even need to use two hands; Jamison's waist is nearly as thin as the skeleton man’s, and Mako can almost wrap his whole hand around it. The man squirms and giggles as Mako lifts him above his head. 

“Well shoot, yer a fine catch, ain'tcha? Bet all the ladies back home want a piece a ya.”

Mako wonders why he would say something like that.

There are others that share their house (A “tent”, Jamison tells him, these are “tents”). One of them is a big woman, nearly as tall as Jamison, who he recognizes from one of the posters. Jamison says she can lift trees right out of the ground, and can fight a bear with one hand tied behind her back. He assumes a bear is very strong, by the impressed expression on Jamison’s face. The strangest thing Mako sees is her hair. It’s like the pink of a flower. Chalk, she tells him. He has to ask what that is, and she smiles bright and happy like Jamison. She has a thick accent from a place he doesn’t know, and she rolls sounds around on her tongue. He likes that she lets Jamison hang off her big muscled arms.

There are animals here, creatures he’s never seen before. Jamison says they’re from far across the ocean, from forests as big as the mainland. He recognizes one of them as the striped beast from the painting on the carriage. It paces its cage fiercely, round yellow eyes watching anyone who passes by. He decides it's best to keep his distance from it. There’s an enormous animal with big, floppy ears and a long, friendly nose that touches the ground and moves to its will. An elephant, Jamison tells him. It is slow and quiet, and Jamison says it reminds him of Mako. Big and strong and nice.

He doesn't see posters of Jamison anywhere, but he seems to have enough energy to run this entire place single handedly. He bounces and gestures excitedly at anything and everything, like he is showing Mako the whole world. His grin takes over his entire face when Mako asks questions, and it is as if answering those questions is what makes him most happy.

He finally asks why Jamison is here, as the night becomes too dark and the people and creatures settle for the night. The glow from the little sun hanging from the ceiling makes shadows play across Jamison's face. His smile is full of teeth, but suddenly it seems bashful, as if he is ashamed to tell.

“I'm a man of many talents,” he says, “and they're all for show.”

That must be something he says before he starts his performance, Mako realizes, and he watches Jamison stand with his arms in the air above his head, one foot pointed up and out, and he begins to fall forward. 

Mako instinctively reaches forward to try and catch him before he hits the ground, but he falls quickly and with purpose. He lands on his hands, and it’s as if they have become his feet, his body upside down. His knees are terribly far in front of him, his spine bent like he can curl his torso into a ball, and Mako finds it both terrifying and funny. Jamison begins to walk on his hands with no hesitation, and looks at Mako with another wide grin and orange twinkling eyes.

“Ta da!” 

Mako inspects him in his strange new position, and Jamison shifts uncomfortably, the toes of his shoes touching the top of his hair, making the bells ring. It’s as if he is standing on his own head. Mako cautiously presses a single finger to one of his knees, and it twitches violently, followed by a little giggle.

“What, ya think it’s broken?”

Mako nods, and Jamison slowly lifts one of his feet up and places it in Mako’s hand. It is small for someone of his height, and Mako’s hands are still so very big. Jamison smiles and pats the palm of Mako’s hand with his heel.

“Look, it’s like a handshake! A footshake!”

Mako watches the man laugh at his own amusement, but he curls his fingers around the foot and gives it a gentle shake. Jamison giggles louder.

“I do lots of stuff, mate, way crazier than this. Makes some people freak out, though. Are ya squeamish?”

“What’s squeamish?”

“Ya get grossed out easy. Like ya see something nasty and ya feel sick.”

Mako thinks for a moment, and Jamison waits patiently with eyes that wander Mako’s weku, as if it will tell him the answer. Mako wants to fix whatever is making Jamison so anxious. “No.”

Jamison smiles like he’s won a prize. “Good. Check this one out!”

He uncurls himself, and hops back up. This time, his feet stay planted on the ground while the rest of him leans back dangerously, like he is stretching his back, but keeps going until he is bent in half at the hips, his shoulders touching the back of his legs. Mako feels himself grow uneasy at the sight of the man bent so flat he could snap in two, but he doesn’t seem to be in any sort of pain. Jamison grabs his ankles and pulls his head forward, tucking it between his calves. He looks up at Mako fondly, and the bells ring again.

“Neat, huh? Can do just about anything, really.”

Mako marvels at the flexibility of his spine, the strength of his hips, the stretch of the man’s stomach. Mako touches the skin just below the man’s belly button, bones jutting out sharply, just to feel how tight it is. Taut muscles are pulled to their limits, and the skin feels thin like it could just rip apart at any moment.

Jamison flinches at the touch with a funny noise, some sort of giggle and a whine put together, and Mako looks down to his face. Even under all that paint, he can see the pink color tinting his ears and neck. Maybe that’s from the blood rushing to his head.

“Not fair,” he mutters, and there’s something funny in his voice; a tremor, something weak and nervous. “Yer getting me all bothered.”

Mako pulls away. “Sorry.”

Jamison gives him an odd look, like Mako was the strange one, not the man bent in half with his head between his legs. Had he misunderstood what he meant? He was bothering him, so he stopped. Jamison looks like he’s unsure of what to say, his mouth opening and closing silently. It makes Mako feel like he’s done something wrong.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Jamison finally says, and he slowly untangles himself, standing up straight for a single second before slouching deep, deeper than he’d ever seen him before. He looks reserved and careful suddenly, and his eyes dart over every inch of Mako’s weku, as if he can find Mako’s real face if he looks hard enough. He is smiling again, but it’s angular and smarmy and something akin to want. “Ya can bother me anytime.”

Mako is definitely lost now. Maybe he doesn’t know what that word means after all. He was sure he was using it correctly. Jamison is jittering and rocking on his heels, as if he is waiting for Mako to answer again. Is he supposed to say something? His eyes trail down Mako’s body, as if memorizing his moko, and his face hides none of his interest or adoration. Mako feels naked under that wide curious gaze.

“Unless ya ain’t into blokes?”

Blokes. He knows that word from somewhere. He must have heard it from the settlers at some point. But Jamison has already taken Mako’s silence as his answer, and he twitches and grins and starts playing with the fake fingers of his metal hand.

“Sorry, that’s pretty forward, ain’t it? They say I ain’t got any manners. Probably right. Forget I said anything!”

Mako feels like he should ask, knows he should, but Jamison is already scurrying over to his bedside table to rummage through his things. He seems eager to put the conversation behind them.

“Ya ready fer yer show tomorrow? It’s real exciting.” There’s a wash basin hidden under some discarded clothes, and Jamison shakes a shiny, white pitcher to see if there’s any water in it. “Well, I suppose they ain’t gonna make ya do nothin’. Just gotta sit there and look scary.”

Mako sits on his bed and watches him pour the water into the basin, throwing a rag in with it. Jamison turns to smile at him, and it’s sweet like a kumara. “But ya ain’t a scary fella, are ya?”

His friendliness is still something Mako hasn’t quite gotten used to. Of all the people he’s met, he remains the focus of Mako’s attention, and it’s starting to make Mako feel a little less homesick. Jamison is the one thing that stands out above everything else, as if he is the only cloud in a lonely sky.

“No,” Mako answers, and Jamison just smiles wider. The man wrings the rag in the water and brings it to his face, smearing at the white paint. It looks oily, and only comes off with a bit of scrubbing, but Jamison looks determined as he watches himself in a little pocket mirror leaning against a stack of books. The paint gives way, and beneath it is white skin tinted red from the rag’s roughness. As more is cleared, it reveals freckles dotting over his nose and cheeks, and tiny spots of brown around his forehead and chin. Like constellations.

Mako is staring, and Jamison knows somehow, can see right through his weku, because he’s smiling at him again with lips that are no longer blue, but rosy and pale. He can’t quite seem to get the blue out from around his eyes, and it leaves delicate lines around his blond eyelashes.

“Can never get it all off,” he says, and it’s quiet and gentle, unlike everything else he does, and the only word Mako can think of is ‘soft’. Jamison dunks the rag and wrings it out again, and the colors run into the water. “Then again, I only take it off to sleep. Ya see what happens when I forget.”

Mako looks at the smeared dirty blankets on the man’s bed and can’t help but smile.

Jamison continues his evening ritual, hefting off the heavy chain around his neck and hanging it on the metal post of his bed. It clicks and clacks loudly, and it distracts Mako for only a moment before Jamison is standing and undoing the cloth around his neck and shoulders. He drops it on the floor with a thunk, the metal rings making it heavy, and shucks off his coat. At least, Mako thinks it’s a coat. It’s open in the front and just covers the man above his waist, and the sleeves only go halfway up his arms. Whatever it is, it comes off to lay on the ground with the collar.

Mako can see how very skinny he is now. His shoulders are broad, but they slouch with the rest of him, making his body look curved and sick. Freckles dust over his shoulders too, like the sun had left little kisses there. The muscles on his arms are small and shapely, like there is nothing else beneath his skin. He is sharp and thin and truly odd. Mako is growing more and more curious.

“Do you eat?”

Jamison jerks a bit, like he hasn't gotten used to the sound of Mako’s voice yet, but his smile doesn’t falter. He pets his good hand across his bicep, and the muscles twitch visibly under his skin.

“Yeah, mate, I eat. Didn’t have much ‘til I came here, though. Years of tough love made me a stick!”

He flexes both arms proudly, and Mako can see the ripples of flesh over his ribs, rows of thick outlines showing how little fat there is underneath. Mako almost feels bad about his own size, comparing himself to the rail thin man before him. His thick muscles were created through hard work of his own, building boats and hauling fish, but he still has his father’s body: tall and wide and round. More room for moko, his mother had told him. More room for stories, and he has enough written on him to fill a book.

“Yer the impressive one, though. Just look at ya!”

Jamison gestures at him happily before resting his hands to his hips. Mako can’t understand why his face is so pink. “Big and tough! No one can push ya around, can they? Ya could just snap ‘em in half! Now that’s something, mate.”

Mako is a little uncomfortable being looked at like this, with eyes that twinkle like stars and a grin that leaves him powerless. He is being admired, and he is overwhelmed with a sort of nervousness that settles below his skin and makes it prickle. 

Mako wonders what Jamison sees in him. He’s just a fisherman from a quiet, little island, far from the rest of the world. He doesn’t understand anything beyond it, and it’s frustrating and makes him feel small, but Jamison thinks he’s something to be marveled at. He thinks Mako’s interesting.

“I’m not special,” he says, and Jamison sputters out a short laugh.

“Nah, mate. Ya are. Ya just don’t see it.”

The man thumbs at the side of his nose, and the color in his cheeks is still vivid. His fingers go back to fiddling with his metal hand, curling the fake fingers at their creaky joints. It is a nervous habit, Mako realizes. Jamison’s eyes dart around the room, and it’s as if he wants to say more, but can’t.

“Welp, g’night Mako!” He chirps suddenly before turning away and throwing more things to the ground, pulling papers and bits of metal from under his sheets. He pats it all down and reaches for the long string hanging from the tiny sun in the ceiling. He pulls it, and the room goes dark as the night outside. The tiny sun has gone to sleep.

Jamison throws himself onto his bed, making it squeak loudly, and his body bounces before laying still under the dirty, stained blanket. Mako carefully lays back onto his bed and looks to the ceiling. The cloth of the tent moves with the breeze outside, and it sounds like the sway of trees, the dance of leaves. As calming as it is, it does little to help his mind find sleep. He takes a deep breath and exhales through his nose, but something is keeping him awake.

Eyes find him in the dark; he can feel them on him. He turns his head toward Jamison, and there he is, staring. His face shines white from the glow of the moon coming through the open door flap.

“Do ya take yer mask off ta sleep? That can’t be comfortable.”

Mako wants to. He’s never slept with it on before, and it makes his face sweat and his skin feel sticky. But he can’t, not if people can walk in whenever they please. They will see his face, and he can no longer hide.

Mako shakes his head as his answer, and Jamison seems disappointed for a single second before kicking his feet and making a sound to say he understood. Jamison has to be curious about what’s underneath the weku. Mako can’t keep it a secret forever, not with the man’s wandering gaze and never-ending questions. One day, Mako will be brave enough.

He takes another deep breath, and thinks of his home near the nikau groves, and the warm, soft sands of the shore. The ripple in the canvas ceiling is like the sail of his canoe, but he wants to look up and see the stars, not this. 

Eventually, memories of pretty skies and green, lush forests play behind his eyelids. Ancient songs murmur in his ears, and they lull him away from this cold, confusing place. He asks for dreams to come, and his body relaxes for the first time since he’s left home. Sleep will take him, and the world will be what he wants it to be, if just for a few short hours.

Through the darkness, friendly orange eyes keep watch.


	3. A Painted Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, hey, howzit goin' here's something that's been sitting unfinished on my computer for months.

He knows exactly how the shows will work. The mainland is full of settlers, pale and sneering and cruel. He is to be put on display, to be ogled and laughed at. They will point at his tattoos and ask why he is the way he is. They will never know, because Mako is silent, tough, and hidden behind his weku. He does not have a face for them.

The men who pay him smile, but he sees the bad things in their eyes. They say Mako is lucky to be here, with all the fame he will gain, all the money they will give him. And all he has to do is sit on a stool and do nothing. It is a generous offer, and he will come to love it.

So he does as they ask. They put him in a tent, tall and red, behind heavy canvas curtains. It is dark and smells of dust and hay, but it is quiet. There are other people here, on their own pedestals with their own abnormalities to showcase. He does not socialize with them; he does not wish to stare, even if they can’t tell through his mask. It is a noble courtesy.

He listens to the men beckon to the people from outside, drawing them in with exciting words. They say Mako is a man from a far away land, who only knows how to murder and maim and destroy. They say he lives in the jungle with beasts, and speaks the language of the animals. He is a warrior that paints his face in the blood of his enemies. His tattoos count his kills.

The story makes Mako laugh, and it definitely intrigues the people. He hears their curious gasps and murmurs, and for a small fee, they are let inside to see him. He wonders how scary he can make himself, and if it is worth it to play along. Maybe he will be paid more. He stands tall and squares his shoulders to look as big as he can.

It is an odd experience, when he meets their stares of wonderment. They look at him with strange expressions, ones he was not quite prepared for. It is a silent awe, fascination in their gaping mouths and wide eyes. They take in every inch of him, from the leaves in his hair to the moko on his feet. It reminds him of the way Jamison looks at him, but they are missing the admiration, the innocent joy. They do not smile at him like he does. They are here to gawk, and they memorize him for their money’s worth.

It is not as bad as he’d thought. They are not laughing, at least. Maybe the stories had frightened them, and they think laughing will make Mako crush their skulls like karaka. Some of the smaller children run away crying. He is a monster, after all.

He does this every day, and every day it is the same. They stare, and then they leave. It is easy, boring work. Sometimes he makes quick, jerking motions with his hands as if he were to snatch someone, and it makes the crowd scream. It is like scaring birds, and it’s the most amusement he can get from being watched like an animal. Some of their gazes hurt, laced with some sort of pity or disgust, but they do not cause a scene. He is making good money. He takes no mind.

Jamison is always just outside the tent waiting for him, and that is easily the best part of his day. When he lifts the curtains away, there he is: bright and happy and fidgety. Mako can forget all about the cycle of rude faces when Jamison smiles at him like that. Mako doesn’t have much to say, but Jamison fills in the silence by telling him about his day, about the things he’s heard and the things he’s done. Jamison does not have anything to hide, and Mako likes that.

Mako starts to wonder what Jamison’s shows look like. He only ever performs when Mako is, but he still hears all about it afterwards. He’d like to see it for himself, and when he voices it to Jamison, the man’s head seems to buzz, and the bells in his hair dance loudly.

“Ya wanna see more?” It’s a silly thing to ask. Of course he does. Jamison grins like a madman when Mako tells him so.

He shows him on a night when the world seems to settle down all at once, with the stars high and the moon low. The brightly colored balls crammed underneath his messy bed are finally being used, and he gathers them in his arms before putting them in Mako’s. They are cold and a bit weighty, and Jamison takes two, throwing them about in the air, one hand catching while the other is tossing. There is a strange, rhythmic clanking sound when they meet his metal hand, and he has to lift his arm a certain way for the balls to move right. The balls make a circle in the air, going around and around.

“Toss me another, big guy,” he says, and Mako isn’t sure how he can with the constant motion. He hesitates, and Jamison shifts his stance and smiles, as if what he’s doing is so easy. “I’ll catch it. Don’t worry.”

Mako throws the ball gently, and Jamison catches it in his flesh hand before moving it to the fake one, and it joins the circle. The rhythm has gotten faster.

Juggling, Jamison calls it. He nods his head, asking for more, and Mako follows through. One more, two more, until all the balls are flying about in a big loop that nearly touches the ceiling of their tent. Jamison won’t stop smiling at him, and even sticks his tongue out to mimic his weku again. He stands on one leg, the other sticking up high and pointed like a dancer, and it as if he is not doing anything incredible at all.

Mako admires Jamison; if not for his talent, then for his personality. He may be too talkative for Mako’s taste, but maybe that’s exactly what he needs. It helps when he has so many things to dwell on, too many thoughts of home and old days. When the nights are hard, and all he can think of is how he misses warm sand and cool breezes, Jamison is there to put other things in his head. He tells him about carriages that don’t need horses, how they can move like magic. He tells him about mixing metal and oil to make creatures that can think for themselves, that can build things faster than people can: Machines. Mako is too busy imagining what it all looks like to think of his island. And as he watches him juggle, making funny faces and moving like smooth waves, Mako is overcome with happy thoughts.

He does not need to be homesick. He has something new to think about, and it’s smeared with paint and tied up in ribbons and bells. 

“You’re amazing,” he says without thinking, and suddenly Jamison is all stiff, rigid muscles, his smile gone. The balls fall out of sync, and they drop to the ground with heavy thuds, bouncing out of Jamison’s hands as he tries and fails to catch them. They roll under the beds and tables, and Jamison is left with nothing but wiggling fingers and ringing bells. He looks like he has been struck in the face.

“I’m sorry,” Mako says. He had not meant to break his concentration. He didn't think it was anything important. He only expected him to laugh, like he usually does when Mako speaks. Was it wrong for him to say that? Jamison rubs his flesh fingers over the wrist of his metal hand, and his smile slowly creeps back to its rightful place, big and beaming. There is a strange nervousness on his face, in his eyes, and it dulls the shine of his grin.

“Nah, don’t be,” Jamison says, and it’s low and wistful, “Just can’t remember the last time someone said somethin’ like that ta me.”

Mako’s chest feels tight at those words. It’s wrong, just like everything else in this place. He wonders how that could be true. How do they not see Jamison the way Mako does?

“I can say more,” Mako offers, “if you would like me to.”

There are bugs chirping outside, and they are suddenly so loud in the long silence between them. Jamison looks even more out of sorts now, and Mako feels the guilt weighing him down to his bed. He’s not used to speaking. It only ever scares people. It only ever causes problems.

Jamison rushes forward so fast that Mako flinches, and suddenly he is touching him, ghosting his real fingers over the moko on his shoulder, drifting down his arm. It tingles, but it’s warm and gentle. He can feel the barely contained excitement thrumming through Jamison’s fingertips.

It is odd for Jamison to be the one looming over him instead of the other way around, but he’s lost in orange eyes. They find his own through the weku, and when his face draws near, Jamison must be able to see them clearly. He can see Mako beneath the wood and paint.

“Ya drive me mad, ya know.” Jamison says, and the air between them is fiery. His fingers brush into the inside of Mako's elbow, grazing over the thin skin before coming back up to the thick muscles in his bicep. “Bein’ so nice. It ain’t fair.”

Mako feels his heart beating harder and faster as Jamison’s fake hand presses against his other arm for leverage, and it is cold and smooth-- like a stone polished by the sea. He feels Jamison drawing closer until his belly is touching Mako’s, and the sound of drums beats through him. 

They are stuck in time, and Mako is entranced by the look on Jamison’s face. He is all sharp angles and messy paint, but his expression is soft and muddled with anxiety. There’s a quickness in his eyes, and suddenly his fingers are at Mako’s chin, sliding up to touch the edges of the weku. His thumb flicks at the unpainted wood underneath, where it’s become soft and uneven with age, and he looks so wary.

“Can I?” He asks, quiet and careful, and Mako can't say no. He lets Jamison push the weku up and he closes his eyes as he becomes blind. It glides past his nose, his forehead, until it rests on the top of his head. Jamison gasps, and Mako is almost too scared to open his eyes.

A warm thumb presses to his cheek and caresses its way across it, up the heavy lines around his eyes, to the thick bridge of his nose. When Mako opens his eyes, Jamison looks like he’s seen something beautiful, like a sunset over the water, with his eyes wide and his lips parted just enough. His touch travels across each koru swirl, following the flow of ink with fingers as light as the breeze.

“What does it mean?” Jamison asks, and it is a whisper beneath the crickets and the little buzzing sun above them. “Is it a secret? Is that why ya wear the mask?”

“I can tell you what they mean,” Mako answers, and Jamison seems to light up even more. Mako moves his cheek into the touch, and Jamison giggles.

“This side is my mother. She is wise and kind; a healer. She tells our stories and sings our songs. Born to the sons of daughters of past chiefs.”

Jamison hums and traces the thin hei matau that runs lower on his cheek. “It looks like a fish hook.”

Mako smiles. “This means I am a fisherman.”

“A fisherman!” Jamison laughs, but there is no malice; only mirth. “Coulda pegged ya for a big tough warrior.”

“That is my father’s side,” Mako says, and guides Jamison’s hand to his other cheek. “A man big enough to break mountains. He was strong and deadly, selfless and loyal. Born to warriors.”

Jamison strokes the lines along his cheekbone lovingly. Each one is part of a story, of who he is and where he’s from. He presses to the raurau at his nose, moves up to the thick pattern spreading from his brow to his hair. He traces every line, every swirl, as if he were to learn them. When he reaches his untouched temple, he stops.

“Ain’t nothin’ in this spot. Does it hurt too much here?”

Mako appreciates Jamison’s curiosity. “This would be my number of wives.”

Jamison looks struck again, and Mako suddenly understands; he knows what he’s been doing wrong since he met Jamison, what those odd words and expressions had meant. Mako had not thought it possible, in this terrible place, to be so lucky as this.

Jamison’s lips open and close wordlessly before stretching into a grin. He hides behind it. “No wives? How’s a handsome fella like ya not married? What, ain’t no good with the ladies? Ya not a charmer back home?”

Jamison keeps talking, and it seems that he’s only doing it for himself. He continues to tell Mako how it should be so easy for him, how women should line up for the chance to have him, on and on, and Mako lets him. He is too busy watching the twitch of Jamison’s shoulders, the eyes that won’t meet his, the smile that grows more and more manic. Mako does not miss how the fingers on his face have started to flex and tremble. He sighs deeply, and rests a hand on Jamison’s hip. It makes him quiet, uttering another gentle gasp, and his eyes are suddenly so very focused on Mako. Mako enjoys that.

“I don’t take wives.”

Mako likes the feel of Jamison’s wrist in his big hand, likes the feel of his lips on Jamison’s palm. The flesh there is clammy and shaking, but it’s also warm and soft. He kisses the lines in his skin, the dips of bone underneath, and he likes the way Jamison looks: It’s like he’s been given everything he ever wanted. His smile falters as if he’s not sure Mako is true, but he still moves closer, lifting his legs and settling them over Mako’s thighs. It’s not an easy task, Mako thinks, but Jamison’s hips somehow make the stretch, and he is spread wide over him.

It’s obvious Jamison is unsure of what to say, and Mako sees sharp white teeth biting at his dark blue lips. This is not how the settlers kiss a lady’s hand, so formal and proper; He kisses where Jamison can feel it the most, where it’s important. He kisses at the meat of his thumb, and he feels Jamison relax against him like a buckling wave.

“Ya can’t be real,” Jamison whispers, and he’s close enough for Mako to feel those words. “Otherwise, I’m the luckiest bloke in Sydney. In all of Straya.”

Jamison leans forward to kiss him, and it’s tender despite the fast little breaths Jamison takes through his nose. Jamison is quick to open up, to invite Mako to something more intimate, and Mako follows him through his desperate movements. He tastes something unlike a normal kiss, beyond saliva and flesh, that he’s never tasted before. It is bitter and feels like oil, and it stays on his lips and tongue.

When Jamison pulls away to take a proper breath, he looks Mako over and laughs, tilting his head back and letting it take him over. The bells in his hair ring loudly.

“Oh, mate,” he says, running a finger over Mako’s lips. Mako sees that the paint on his lips has smudged terribly, and there are streaks of pink underneath. “Blue really is your color.”

Jamison’s grin is wide enough to split his face before he plants quick, tiny kisses along Mako’s jaw, on his cheeks, everywhere he can. Mako feels them stick, and he realizes the paint must be all over him now. He’d be bothered by that if Jamison weren't caressing him up and down, giggling through every kiss and wiggling in his lap. Mako’s hands wrap around Jamison’s thin waist to stop the squirming, but it just seems to make him more excited. 

Jamison is like fire: twisting and dancing and burning. His touch spreads over Mako like wild, licking flames that leave him far too hot. When his hips rock forward, rubbing against Mako’s stomach and grinding against his lap, it’s maddening. Jamison knows what he’s doing, and he is as excitable as always. Mako can’t help the way his hips move to match Jamison’s; he hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Something about it is so different from all the times before, all the men before Jamison. It's foreign and strange, and somehow that makes it feel even better. It is new, and it is good.

Jamison reaches down to part the braids of Mako’s skirt, and he takes a moment to feel them. They're thick and soft, and Jamison seems to enjoy them in his hand, rubbing his thumb along the fibers. He quickly grows bored of that, though, and flicks it to the side, making more room for himself.

Mako doesn't normally wear anything under the skirt, but the men who hired him made him cover himself with a thin dark cloth that connected at the hips. They had said people wear clothes to hide their “privates”. He didn’t understand what was so private about it all, but then again, everyone he’d seen so far wore pants and dresses that touched the ground. Doesn’t it all just get in the way? What backwards people. How did they do anything with it if it hides? Jamison seems to feel the same way. He tugs at the front of the cloth, and he pulls it down just enough to let him free. His ure springs forward from beneath the useless cloth, and it feels nice. It feels normal. 

“Ya just keep getting better and better, don’cha?”

Jamison is watching it with wide orange eyes, grinning like he's figured out a secret. A tittering giggle sounds from behind his closed lips, and his long fingers curl around it slowly, gently. It’s unlike Jamison to be so cautious. Mako expects the quick, impatient movements he’s come to associate with the twitchy man, but all he sees is wonder. Each stroke sends a pretty wave of warmth through him, his hips jerking up into the attention, and Jamison cackles. He rests his fake hand over Mako’s as it grips his thin, pale waist, and Mako’s ure presses against Jamison’s through his pants. Mako can feel it, hard and impatient, the fabric caught between them frustrating. 

Jamison doesn't want to let go, but the pants have to come off. He starts tearing his clothes away, much less gently than he normally does, and all the metal pieces make loud clanking sounds. It's bound to wake the others that share their tent, sleeping only meters away behind thin flaps. Mako grabs at Jamison's arms to stop him and the noise. 

“Shh,” he whispers, and Jamison only grins and rocks his hips forward playfully. He is truly a creature of chaos. 

He drops his clothes to the floor with a somewhat withdrawn thunk, and gets up off Mako’s lap to fumble with his pants. They’re already so low on his hips, there isn’t much left to the imagination. When they give way, his ure stands at attention, ready to go. Mako is quick to wrap his hand around it and pull, dragging Jamison back over to him with an excited laugh. He spreads his long legs over Mako’s thighs again, and they touch together.

It’s been awhile, and he knows he can’t hold back. Mako’s never been one to finish quickly, but he’s never had a partner quite like Jamison before. He’s nothing but mad energy that can’t be stopped. He rubs against Mako furiously, making soft gasping sounds with each roll of his hips. He reaches down to press both of their ure together, but Mako is a little too big, even for his long fingers. Mako has to take control, settling his hand around both of them and squeezing.  
They’ve only just started and he’s already in shambles over Mako’s lap, whimpering and rocking desperately. His arms loop around Mako’s neck to hold himself steady while Mako does all the work, and Jamison rewards him with more sticky kisses and words he’s never heard before. They fall out of his grinning mouth like they’re meant to seduce him, whispered like curses. Swear words, maybe. Words meant for this. He calls his ure a “cock”, and purrs in Mako’s ear about how nice it feels. He presses against Mako hard, his hips bones sharp and digging into the soft flesh of Mako’s stomach, but it’s still good. Mako likes the way Jamison’s hot breath feels in his ear. It’s noisy and needy, and every thrust draws out a hiss, a growl, a moan. Jamison is talkative even when he’s breathless.

Mako takes his hand away to spit into it, and before Jamison can complain, it’s already back to rubbing between them. It’s slick and warm, and it makes Jamison’s “cock” twitch and ooze into Mako’s palm. Jamison spreads impossibly wider, hooking his legs around Mako as if to keep himself from floating away. He rocks into Mako’s hand desperately, losing his rhythm as he gets closer to tātea. Their skin is starting to stick together with heat and sweat, and Jamison is getting louder and louder.

“Shh,” Mako tells him again, and Jamison wiggles and shivers, bouncing and grinding. It’s making Mako lose his mind so easily.

“Can’t help it,” Jamison answers, and it’s low and full of desire. “Ya make me crazy.”

The roll of a wet tongue against Mako’s ear makes his hips twitch violently, and Jamison laughs as he’s jostled. He touches Mako all over, caressing every bit of skin he can find. It makes Mako feel small for a moment, like Jamison is taking control of his whole body, and Mako wants him to. He gasps when teeth bite his neck teasingly, as if he is tasting him, and the touches only grow more eager, more daring. The blue painted kisses have moved to his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest, before Jamison focuses on the task at hand. Or Mako’s hand, rather. He thrusts hard into the grip, and his eyes close to soak it all in.

“God,” Jamison whispers, and his thighs tremble as he moves. He holds onto Mako’s arms firmly and tosses his head back, finally finding his release. As soon as he opens his mouth, Mako knows he’s going to scream, and he’s quick to cup a hand over it. His hand is so big it covers most of his face, but it does the job, reducing the noise to a muffled howl. Jamison seizes as he tips over the edge, his body shuddering and bucking into Mako’s palm. His wai tātea coats Mako’s hand thoroughly, hot and thick, and it only makes Mako feel tight and sensitive, easier to pump his own ure. Jamison sits back, his “cock” slipping out of Mako’s grip, and he drags the hand on his face down to his mouth. He kisses at Mako’s thumb, slipping his tongue between his fingers before taking one into his hot, slippery mouth. His golden eyes look up at him like he’s the sun and moon and everything in between.

Mako’s embarrassed that that’s what does him in. He squeezes himself hard, shivering and letting himself go with a gentle grunt. He watches the way his wai tātea splatters onto Jamison’s flat, white belly, and it blends in with the paint perfectly.

They take several long breaths together in the quiet of the tent, the night time bugs calling out in the dark. Mako takes his hand from Jamison’s mouth to find it smudged heavily with white and blue. Jamison giggles breathlessly, his face an absolute mess. The blue on his lips is gone entirely, and Mako knows it’s all over him now. He can’t look much better.

“Probably should have washed this off first, huh?”

Mako feels the pleasure draining out of his blood, left with only a sticky, slimy feeling, but he smiles anyway. Jamison is already clammering off him and setting up his wash basin, dunking a rag into the water and wringing it. He rushes back to meet him, and the touch of the cold, wet cloth makes Mako wince a little. Jamison laughs as he scrubs in small circular motions over Mako’s cheeks.

“Sorry, mate. I got a little carried away.”

Mako likes having Jamison this close. He can feel the heat of his skin, smell the metal of his costume, see the twitch of excited muscles. The rag moves to his neck, ghosting over those sensitive little bites he’d left behind. Those would last a little longer than paint.

Jamison stops to look at Mako’s face, to admire the ta moko once more, to take in all the little details that had taken day after day to create. Mako still can’t believe the admiration flitting across those orange eyes, the sweet amazement that permeates them. Jamison licks his bare lips and sighs gently as if he’s not sure of something, or he’s thinking too hard. His wet fingers trace the lines along his jaw softly, and he is lost in the design.

He’s suddenly kissing Mako, but he already knew it was coming, and he kisses right back. He cups Mako’s face and keeps him close like he might disappear, crushing them together. His hands find Jamison’s waist, and they return the affection with strong, assuring strokes. Jamison’s lips mold over Mako’s so wonderfully, and in the silence surrounding them, the world could stop and they wouldn’t even know.

They wouldn’t even care.

**Author's Note:**

> [Follow me on Tumblr!](http://froggyflan.tumblr.com/)


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